C'est L'esprit
by Joyce LaKee
Summary: Just your basic MOTW. Our intrepid duo suspect Satanic abuse when a nursing home patient sustains a strange injury.
1. Chapter 1

X FILES belongs to Chris Carter. Any resemblances to persons living or dead are strictly coincidental.

This is my first multichapter X-File story. Let me know what you think! The first chapter is short because it's the intro (you know--before the opening credits).

SMITHFIELD GERIATRIC CENTER

LANSDALE, PENNSYLVANIA

10:35am

The residents' lounge at Smithfield Geriatric Center was a tasteful but boring room decorated in shades of mauve, with rented plants in the corners and one large picture window overlooking busy Gwyn Avenue and the local Hyundai dealer. Strategically placed speakers wafted soft muzak, but if it was supposed to contribute to anybody's quality of life, it failed miserably. Residents and staff alike had learned to tune it out as they went about their routine. A few residents amused themselves by staring out the window. One or two others, far gone in dementia, stared at visions that only they could see. One woman worked alone on a jigsaw puzzle. But most of them were fixated on the morning talk shows--one of their few links with the outside world. Today's topic was cross-dressing exotic dancers and their colleagues who hate them.

"Now I've seen everything," shouted one elderly woman as she grabbed the arm of her deaf companion. "Why back in my day, people would never even talk about..."

Even though the other woman couldn't hear what was being said to her, she nodded politely. After all, she could still _see_ the guests on the TV show. It wasn't too hard to figure out what they were talking about. Besides, she always watched this show because it was fun to watch the guests fight.

The nurse on duty, Gert Stevenson, stood in a corner of the lounge with her medicine cart. She grinned at the conversation and shook her head as she pushed tablets into a tiny paper cup. But before she could give them out, she heard a shriek and a loud "Git! Get out of my room! Get out of here now!" followed by an anguished wail. Hastily locking her medication cart and stuffing the pills into her pocket, she ran down the hall and around the corner. She made an abrupt stop in the doorway of room 37.

In his wheelchair in the middle of the room, sat a patient, Donald Cosentino, rocking slightly and holding his right wrist. His eyes were screwed shut in a deep frown. But when he saw Gert he sat up straight and reached for his wheels.

"Mr. Cosentino?"

"Oh now what? Go away," he said irritably as he turned his wheelchair away from her.

"I heard a noise. I came to see if you were okay."

"Of course you heard a noise. There's always noise around here. Noisiest place--no wonder you can't get any sleep around here."

Gert walked slowly into the room, and saw the remote control on the floor, out of Mr. Cosentno's reach. She crouched down to pick it up for him and he took it from her. Gert gasped.

"Mr. Cosentino, what happened to you? How did you get that mark?"

"What mark? There's no mark."

Gert gently grasped his hand. There was a mark on his wrist, three connected spirals. "This one. The one right here."

"You dumb broad, that's not a mark. That's just from breakfast when I spilled hot coffee on myself."

"All the skin is reddened. If you had told us when it first happened we could have treated it sooner. In fact, why didn't Joelle tell us about this? She's your private aide. She should have told us right away."

"Now don't go blaming Joelle."

"Where was she?"

Mr. Cosentino shrugged. "Nowhere special. She went to the bathroom--I can mind myself for five minutes, you know. What, she can't even go to the bathroom now?"

Another nurse walked by the door and Gert called out to her, "Lisa, would you bring me the blood pressure cuff?"

"Aw, will you just leave it alone?" Mr. Cosentino roared.

Gert ignored him. "And where is Joelle? Get Joelle now."

Lisa turned to go, calling, "Joelle! Joelle!"

xfXFxfXFxfXFxf

In the bathroom in the hall, just two rooms down from 37, a young black woman in a scrub suit stood with her back against the door. Her eyes were closed and she was breathing hard. In both hands she clutched a pendant worn on a chain around her neck.

When her breathing slowed a bit, she put her hand up to her forehead and pulled it away quickly. There was a glistening red wetness on her fingertips. She gasped and bounded to the sink, grabbed a paper towel and wet it, and proceeded to clean the laceration at her hairline. Then she took a bandaid from her pocket and put it over the cut, wincing as the adhesive pulled at her hair. Finally, she rewound her headscarf to hide the injury.

There was a sharp rap at the door. "Joelle, are you in there?"

The young woman jumped, then called over her shoulder, "Yes, Lisa. I am coming out."

"There's been an incident in 37! They need you right away."

"I am coming." Joelle turned away from the sink. But as her hand touched the doorknob, she looked down and saw her pendant dangling outside her uniform. It had three connected spirals.

Quickly she shoved it under her top.

A/N I hope you liked it! Please leave a review and let me know what you think--am I on target or not?

Next chapter--Mulder and Scully (of course).


	2. Chapter 2

X FILES belongs to Chris Carter. Any resemblances to persons living or dead are strictly coincidental.

FBI HEADQUARTERS

WASHINGTON DC

Special Agent Dana Scully unlocked the door to the office she shared with her partner, flicked on the light, and plunked her bag on the desk. Picking up her empty mug, she turned back to the door and jumped when she saw her partner sweep in carrying two covered drinks.

"You scared me, Mulder. I didn't know you were right behind me."

"Then accept this token of my remorse." He handed her one of the cups.

"You bought coffee?" She asked as she took it from him. It was scalding hot, even with the little cardboard sleeve around it, and she held it gingerly by her fingertips, but it did smell enticing.

"It's the good stuff. From that place where you have to take out a bank loan for a triple-latte-cinnamon-rain forest sparing-espresso topped with..."

"Never mind, Mulder. I get the idea."

"Besides, I thought it would be nice to treat you for a change."

Scully opened the lid, blew on the steaming liquid, and sipped. "I see. But there's no ulterior motive?"

"You wound me, Scully. Here I buy you a drink and you pepper me with accusations."

She snorted. "You have a history, Mulder."

"Actually, what I have is a confession to make. I've been here since six in the morning, waiting for you."

"For me--? Oh, no..."

"Just look," he opened one of the drawers in his desk and pulled something out, "at this."

Scully put down her coffee and took the large tan envelope from him. As she untied the string that fastened the flap, she asked, "So you came here at six in the morning just to check our interoffice mail? If I didn't know better, I'd think you were trying to move up in the Bureau."

"No, no, Scully. That didn't come from any place in the Bureau."

"Then where?"

"Read it."

Scully pulled out the paper inside and started reading. Then she frowned. "This is from the Department of Health...a patient in a nursing home with a mark on his arm..." She looked up at him. "So what's the problem? The patient said he splashed himself with a hot beverage."

"By law, the Home has to file a report of any burns to the health department."

"Which they did..."

"But look what else came in the envelope."

Scully peered inside the envelope again. There was a little snapshot. She took it

out and examined it.

Mulder came up behind her and tapped it. "That's the so called burn."

Scully tilted her head to one side. "Hmmm. Its shape is very unusual."

"Exactly, Scully. Burn marks don't generally look like three connected circles."

"So you're thinking it's some form of elder abuse?"

"Bingo."

Scully frowned and sat down in her chair. "Mulder, abuse of any kind, to anyone is evil--and against the law. But I still don't see how this is an XFile. Why don't we forward this to the proper authorities? They'll know how to handle it."

"Because I have a hunch, Scully, but I won't know for certain until the picture is analyzed. But in any case, somebody wanted us to investigate this badly enough that they pushed this envelope, unmarked, under my door. I think we should at least take a look."

"Oh, Mulder," Scully groaned, "we just flew back last night from Muleshoe where, may I remind you, we found no hard evidence of that mothman infestation you were so sure we'd find."

Mulder threw up his hands in frustration. "So you still don't think those unusual bite marks...?"

"No, I don't. And neither will Skinner when we try to submit our report to him."

"Never mind that Scully. I know what I saw, even if you don't want to accept it. But if the picture analysis shows what I think it will, we'll be going to Pennsylvania." He plopped down into his chair. "You'd better drink your coffee before it gets cold. I'm going to make an appointment with the photo lab."


	3. Chapter 3

X FILES belongs to Chris Carter. Any resemblances to persons living or dead are strictly coincidental.

INTERSTATE 95

NORTHBOUND

Scully sat back against the gray cloth seat of their rented car, letting the papers, photos and documentation rest in her lap.

"Take another look at the map, Scully, will you? I don't want to miss our exit."

"We just left Delaware, Mulder. We still have some time."

He nodded, keeping his eyes on the car in front of him, which was drifting, to the left and to the right over the painted lines. "Some people should not be given driver's licenses," he muttered.

"You knew what the lab technician would find, didn't you?" She asked as she picked up a photo to look at one more time that day.

Mulder shrugged. "I had a hunch. You could see in the first photo, the lighting is poor and the picture quality is grainy."

"According to the lab report, this picture was most likely taken from a distance and then blown up."

"Exactly," he agreed. My guess is it was taken at night while the patient was asleep. Maybe from across the room. Or maybe even from the hallway."

"But why, Mulder? This doesn't make any sense. They filed the paperwork as they are required to do by law--so it doesn't seem to me like they're trying to hide anything. And it is an accepted practice to take pictures of particularly bad or suspicious wounds. It doesn't make any sense to go all cloak-and-dagger to take this."

"It also doesn't make any sense to push this envelope under my door and run away, but they did it."

"Whoever _they_ are," she said as she put her hands in her lap and gazed out the window.

"I'll just bet whoever they are disgruntled with the way the investigation was going from their end and want to draw more attention to it. That means you and me. Well, that's what we're going to find out."

"But there's something you haven't told me, Mulder. When our people analyzed the picture they found this shape to be..."

"...A triskele--three connected spirals. It's an ancient European symbol of the afterlife. It dates back to the pagan days."

Scully nodded. "So your theory revolves around..."

"Well, think about it Scully. What kinds of people are closest to the end of this life--and therefore facing the afterlife?"

"Anybody could die at any time, Mulder."

"Yes, yes. But if you had an interest in the afterlife, say. You wanted to study it. Wanted to maybe get a glimpse--you'd be more likely to want elders as test subjects rather than for instance, a group of healthy twentysomethings."

"So you think somebody at the Home is studying the afterlife using dying people as test subjects?"

"That's my best theory so far."

"One mile 'til our exit, Mulder." And she stared out the window.

SMITHFIELD GERIATRIC CENTER

LANSDALE, PENNSYLVANIA

The door to room 37 was open, but Mulder rapped lightly on it before he entered and called out, "Mr. Cosentino? May we have a moment?"

The elderly man was seated in his wheelchair, remote control in hand, watching television. When he saw it was two strangers, he shut off the TV and turned his chair. "Who are you?"

"Agent Mulder, Agent Scully, FBI." They both flipped open their badges.

"Is that right," Cosentino said. There was no welcome or even curiosity in his voice. "And what do you want with some old geezer like me?"

"We'd just like to ask you a few questions, if you please," asked Scully respectfully.

At that moment, an aide tapped on the door. "I brought your snack, Mr. Cosentino."

"Leave it by the TV," and he jerked his head in that direction. She did as he asked. "You can go now," he added when she was done.

The aide nodded and left.

"Is that your private aide? Joelle Pierre-Luc?" Scully queried.

"Her? No. Joelle has the day off. She's just covering for her."

"We'd like to ask you some questions about Ms. Pierre-Luc."

But Cosentino was no longer paying attention to Scully. "Here! What're you doing, Buddy?" He asked Mulder, who was looking around at the pictures and decorations in the room.

"Just admiring your photos, Mr. Cosentino. Is this your family here--this black and white? They look like really nice kids."

Cosentino looked at the agents piercingly for a moment. Then he said, "Come here. Let me show you two something." He wheeled his chair over to a little cabinet and reached for a picture on the top shelf. "This is Joelle--and me. It was taken at the Christmas party two years ago. It stays here where everybody can see it. Now down on that bottom shelf, if you'd grab that green album?"

Scully pulled out the album and handed it to him.

"Look here," he said as he flipped through pages. "This was taken at Long Beach Island. When the family goes on vacation she goes with us."

"That's very nice, sir," Mulder stated.

"So would you say," Scully interjected," that you need a lot of help to get through the day? Like getting dressed, for instance?"

"Well what do you think? I've survived a stroke. I have Parkinson's. Do you think I live here for fun? Yes, I need her help. But I also like her companionship. She's a smart kid. She knows when to listen. And she knows not to ask a million questions." With that, he glared at the two agents.

Mulder and Scully glanced at each other at this pointed barb.

"Now you two listen to me. I like Joelle. She's been nothing but good to me. In fact, she's just like a daughter."

"I understand you like Joelle. But what can you tell us about that burn?"

"What burn?" His voice became defensive.

"On your wrist," Scully pressed.

"Oh that? I just splashed some coffee on myself. Old folks like me have fragile skin."

"Shouldn't Joelle have been helping you with your meal at the time?"

"Well, I hardly need her to spoon feed me," he answered indignantly. "I'm not too old to drink my own coffee." With that he turned his chair to the TV. But then he thought of one more thing to say and called over his shoulder, "And furthermore, you two should be spending your time catching murderers--and--and bank robbers--and corrupt congressmen. Not picking on some poor girl just trying to make a living." And with that he turned his face to the TV, turned it on, and refused to say any more.

Mulder and Scully turned and left the room. They walked slowly down the hall and Mulder said low, "What do you think, Scully? He seemed really adamant in there."

Scully tipped her head to one side, thinking. "It's possible he's protecting Joelle because he fears retaliation. But without further investigation..." and she stopped and nudged her partner.

Coming towards them was an official looking woman in a business suit. She had her right hand extended and her smile was strained.


End file.
